Nassau, 1718, 10 years later.
The sun hung high over Nassau's docks, a white-hot coin hammered into the sky.
It baked the warped planks, turned the air thick with salt, sweat, and the stink of fish left too long in the heat.
Hammers rang. Ropes creaked. Men cursed.
The whole port breathed like a beast that hadn't decided yet whether to wake or bite.
Thomas Vance stood shirtless beside a half-dead brigantine; The Maiden's Wreck, though it looked more coffin than ship.
His bare back and shoulders were lean, sun-browned, muscle carved by labour, not vanity. Sweat traced down his spine, soaking the waistband of his trousers.
He wasn't rebuilding a ship.
He was trying to rebuild the idea of one.
"VANCE!"
The shout cracked across the docks like a snapped line.
Thomas turned.
Tully barrelled down the pier, all gut, sweat, and cigar smoke. The man looked like he'd been carved from pork fat and bad temper, his belly jostling with each step.
T"You said this damned ship'd be ready!" Tully barked. "All I see are splinters, sweat, and excuses!"
Thomas didn't pause. Just wiped his brow with the back of one hand.
"She's got a cracked keel and half her ribs were rotten through. You want her ready now, grab a hammer and start praying."
Tully's face flamed crimson. "You cheeky bastard! I paid good sovereigns—"
"You paid for work," Thomas said evenly. "Not miracles."
The dockhands nearby went quiet. Everyone knew that tone, the one that lived halfway between calm and something dangerous.
Tully puffed, sweat slicking his collar. "I could've hired anyone!"
"Then you should've."
"What was that?!"
Before fists could fly, another voice cut in, smooth, teasing, the kind that could con a priest.
"Now, now, gentlemen," drawled Jonah Briggs. "Let's not brawl over a lady with a broken spine."
He sauntered down the dock, shirt open to the breeze, boots scuffed, grin already two steps ahead of him. His hair was a mess, his breath smelled faintly of rum and bad ideas, and he wore both like medals.
"Tully, my favourite blustering tyrant," Jonah said, spreading his arms. "You've got to stop shouting. You'll scare the gulls."
Tully spun on him. "Briggs, I swear to God—"
"You keep swearing, but you never follow through," Jonah said, flicking a coin toward him. "Peace offering. Go buy something cold before you melt into the dock."
Tully caught it, barely, glaring at both men. "You'd better finish this ship, Vance. Or I'll gut you and feed what's left to your friend."
Jonah clapped him on the shoulder. "All love, Tully. You're the wind beneath our misery."
Tully stomped off, still muttering. The smoke of his cigar hung behind him like a curse.
Jonah waited until he was gone, then grinned. "Charming man. Always smells like dead crab."
Thomas exhaled, half a laugh. "One day he's actually going to follow through."
Jonah shrugged. "Then I'll die how I lived. Handsome and underpaid."
He leaned against the hull, squinting through the sun. "You could be in Kingston, you know. Working for the Navy. Shade. Clean boots. Five times the pay."
Thomas didn't look up from his work. "And wear a uniform? Take orders from men who've never touched a tiller?" He set another plank with a solid crack of the mallet. "No thanks."
"God forbid you make an honest living," Jonah said, watching him with mock pity. "You could own this dock one day."
"I don't want to own it," Thomas said. "I just want to build ships that float and stay out of the mud."
Jonah tapped a coil of rope with his boot. "Speaking of mud…I've got a proposition."
Thomas sighed. "You always do."
Jonah grinned wider. "There's a game tonight. Private table. Cards, coin, and a handful of men who drink faster than they think. Happening above the rum house, quiet crowd, high stakes."
Thomas kept working. "You know how I feel about your card games."
"You're not playing," Jonah said, raising both hands. "You're sitting there. Looking intimidating. Maybe saying something cryptic once in a while. I'll do the talking."
Thomas frowned. "What kind of 'talking'?"
"The kind that ends with us less broke," Jonah said. "Come on! One night. You sit, drink, glower. If we win, I'll split clean. If we lose, you can punch me and call it even."
Thomas finally looked up, hammer in hand. "So… it's a con."
Jonah placed a hand to his chest. "Con is such an ugly word. I prefer creative redistribution of wealth."
Thomas turned back to the hull. "Pass."
"Tom," Jonah said, stepping closer, grin faltering into something real, "you can't just keep fixing what's broken and call that a life. Sooner or later, you've got to start living it."
Thomas met his gaze. "Every time you say that, we end up running."
Jonah smirked, back pedalling toward the sun. "And yet here we are. Still running. Still breathing. Still pretty."
That earned the smallest laugh.
Jonah tipped an invisible hat. "See you tonight, grumpy. Bring that frown. It sells the lie."
He vanished into the chaos of the dock, whistling an old sea shanty, the kind that never had a happy ending.
Thomas watched him go, then turned toward the sea.
The light on the water glittered sharp as broken glass. The ships rocked lazily, masts creaking against the sky. Somewhere beyond the harbour, thunder rolled — distant, patient, waiting.
Ten years gone, and still no grave for the father he barely remembered.
Just seafoam and silence.
He rested a hand on the rough wood of the Maiden's Wreck. It trembled faintly beneath his touch, as if something deep beneath the dock had stirred.
Not dread.
Not quite.
But something was coming.
Not cards.
Not cons.
Something older.
Waiting.